Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  MacEwan and the two guards just looked at him.

  Grable glanced again at his watch. “At this rate, I’ll never keep that engagement. May I use the phone—or is that denied me?”

  “Not at all.” MacEwan even pushed the telephone across the desk.

  “Thank you.” Quickly, Grable began to dial.

  Now what will he tell his contact? MacEwan wondered. That he still has suspicions? That someone else must make a second visit to Basset Hill? Or that he was following a false lead? MacEwan waited tensely.

  Grable let the phone ring twice, cut it off. “Think I dialled a wrong number. Guess I was hurried. Better try again. Do you mind?”

  So that had been the signal to alert his contact that a vital message was about to be sent. “Go ahead,” said MacEwan, and again noted the numbers that were being dialled with exaggerated care. They were exactly the same as the ones used previously.

  “Sam? Josh here. Can’t make dinner tonight—got a bad migraine. A rotten day altogether. Found no story, nothing worth writing about. Tell my publisher to come up with a better idea next time. I’m calling it quits on this one. See you in New York.” Grable replaced the receiver, looked blandly at MacEwan. “Sam’s my agent, usually a bright guy, but this time...” He shook his head.

  MacEwan looked disinterested. Thank God, he thought. The search for Nina was over. Basset Hill had been declared a complete failure. He said to one of the guards, “Tell the Director that everything is under control here.” As the man left, MacEwan lifted away the telephone from Grable’s reach. “Now, let’s start with your name and address. Then your agent’s. Then your publisher’s.”

  Grable stared at him. “Is this some kind of inquisition?” But his voice was less assured, his eyes less confident.

  “Not yet,” said MacEwan, “not yet.”

  ***

  Nina hadn’t moved. She stared at the van Ruysdael, saw only a blur of blues and greens. Mrs. Renwick... And she had almost turned around. So near to disaster, just one small swerve of her head. Would he have noticed her eyes, noticed the startled look on her face? Could he have suddenly realised that the colour of her hair might have changed, but that her expression was too alarmed, too concerned? She bowed her head, wasn’t even aware that Mac had taken the man out of the gallery, didn’t even know that Colin Grant had bid the trustee a hasty goodbye and was now coming quickly toward her. She heard the blonde speaking as the girls rose and moved away. What chased them off? she wondered. And then in panic, Is the man back here again? She raised her head. I’ll brazen it out, she thought. But it was Colin who was standing before her. He took her hand, sat down beside her.

  “The man has gone,” he told her. “Mac took him in charge. We’ll find out who he is. What did he say? Did he threaten you?” Her hands were cold with fear.

  “He said—‘Mrs. Renwick!’ And I nearly looked around. Oh, Colin, I almost did!”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “He wasn’t speaking to me, of course. But I thought he was. And I was so startled...” Nina shook her head. “But how could he have traced me here? There was no connection between you and Bob—not openly, at least.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Grant was frowning, trying to recall any time in Austria when he and Renwick had been seen obviously together. “Once—” he said—“no, it couldn’t have been that.”

  “Once what?”

  “We were trying to enter a small cottage—three men inside, armed. A girl upstairs. Kidnapped. So we made a little assault. I set the barn on fire—”

  “You did what?”

  “—with a grenade. Didn’t expect the place to go up in flames.” Grant was smiling at the memory. “Bob was at the house door, got the men as they came out with their Lugers waving. Quite a moment.” He glanced around the gallery, and laughed softly.

  “Killed them?” It was self-defence, she told herself.

  “No, no. He’s a damn fine shot. Picks his target. He got them on shoulders and knee, put them out of commission.”

  She stared at him in wonder—the man who was devoted to art, who wanted people to view the best paintings in the best of surroundings. “Then they saw you both.”

  “Only Bob. He was alone at the door. I shoved past them to reach the staircase and get Avril out—the whole place was burning fast. They didn’t see my face, couldn’t have identified me—a moment of complete chaos. Soon, some of our friends arrived and helped Bob with his prisoners. I wasn’t there. I was with—” He stopped abruptly. The first time in four years I’ve ever talked of this, he thought. He drew a deep breath. “With Avril. After that we got safely away by car.” He stopped again. This time there was no emotion on his face—just a blank look of astonishment. “That’s it,” Grant said softly. “Avril and Bob and I and two of his agents—all in that car, making good our escape. One of those agents—like Bob, he worked with NATO Intelligence—turned out to be in the pay of the KGB.”

  “One of Bob’s people? A man he trusted?”

  “Trusted and liked. He was a refugee, an anti-Communist. Escaped from East Germany. A good agent, reliable, honest. And then—well, he was blackmailed, threatened with the safety of his wife and child, who had been trapped in Dresden. So he passed information to the KGB in Vienna. When he was caught, he swore he had only supplied them with worthless facts, nothing they could use.”

  “Bob believed him?”

  “Gave him the benefit of the doubt. His past record had been blameless. But one thing’s certain: he never worked for Bob or NATO Intelligence again.”

  What could anyone do when his wife and child were held hostage? Suddenly she thought, Was that man here today to identify me, have me taken as hostage—tomorrow, the next day, someday when I walked across the gardens?

  “Are you all right?” Grant asked quickly.

  She nodded. “Then it is the KGB who knew about the link between you and Bob,” she said, controlling her voice better than her fears. “They’re the opposition, aren’t they? Behind all this?”

  “Must be.” How else had that little bastard come in here today, all primed about my connection with Bob Renwick? There was no other source of information except through the East German and his KGB control. “I’ll brief Mac. He’ll send the word. Bob can handle this. Nina, please—don’t worry. Please!” The name had slipped out. “You see,” he said wryly, “how easy it is to make a mistake? But you were superb today. You didn’t make one. Not one.”

  The gallery was almost empty at last. Thank God, there had been no alarms, no outcry, no scene, no violence. Mac had led the man away with utmost discretion. And the guards, too, had— Here was one now. Bringing bad news? I’m as nervous as Nina, Grant thought as he watched the sombre face approaching him. But the news was good. Everything was under control.

  “You heard that message?” Grant asked as the guard left. “Couldn’t be better. We’re in the clear. Come on, Cousin Sue, let’s have a drink to celebrate.”

  In spite of herself, Nina was smiling. “Just how did you read all that into one little message?”

  “A formula Mac and I arranged. The man hasn’t a clue that you are actually here. But don’t ask me how Mac found that out. He’ll tell us at dinner.” He took her sketchbook and pencils, pulled her up from the bench. He steadied her.

  “Just a cramp in the legs,” Nina said lightly, “sitting there so long.”

  Yes, sitting there petrified, thought Grant. He began talking about her sketches as he led her out of the gallery into the hall, past his secretary’s office with its door firmly closed.

  Nina noticed the guard standing there. Guards, too, at the front portico. Usually they would be going off duty at this hour. “Where is Bob now?” she asked and startled Grant. “Did Mac tell you?”

  “In Europe. That’s all he said.”

  In Europe. “Well, that’s nearer than Asia.” Then she said, “You know, I used to think that all these precautions were just a little—” She hesitated.

>   “Excessive?”

  She nodded. “Which only proves how ignorant I was.”

  “I know. I’ve been down that road myself.”

  “I don’t think we should let Bob know about today, do you?”

  “Mac has to send a full report to London,” Grant reminded her.

  “That, yes. But not about the incident—it was small, so very small.” It would upset Bob, she knew. He would start blaming himself somehow. “Bob is the world’s champion worrior. No need for him to know—until he’s home—and it’s all over.”

  She’s Renwick’s girl, all right. Grant thought. “No need,” he agreed gently. He looked around the placid gardens, quiet, undisturbed, not one intruder; and he drew a deep breath of thankfulness.

  18

  Marchand was as good as his word. The chalet was soon cleared, and most efficiently. Renwick watched the cortege leave by the back door: two men carrying the lightweight stretcher (how often had they carried it down a mountainside with its wrapped bundle strapped in place, just as now?); then four to guard a handcuffed trio—Marchand himself accompanying, with his hand close to his mouth. Using a transceiver, Renwick guessed, arranging his reception committee at the foot of the hill road. Which left two somewhere up here—he had counted six in the chalet in addition to a couple of police uniforms—to keep watch with us. Or to keep watch on us?

  The slow procession took a shortcut downhill over the field. Darkness swallowed them. Claudel said, “Wouldn’t be surprised if Marchand hasn’t an ambulance half-way up the road as well as the van he mentioned. Hear that?” There was a distant sound of slow-moving engines. It ceased. “But even so,” Claudel reasoned, “Marchand has a lot to do at headquarters. It’s half-past ten now. He’ll never make it back here by midnight.”

  “He’ll be back. He’s curious.”

  “About us? That’s nothing new.”

  “About Lorna. Why was she here? Did we know her?”

  “And what do we say?”

  “She was part of Exports Consolidated. Tried to quit.” Claudel listened intently. The low hum of engines had begun again, receded downhill. “Lorna,” he said very softly. “Incredible, the way she hid that little black book with its Plus List. Not in a safe-deposit box in some big strong bank. Just in a private cubbyhole, guaranteed by a post office.”

  Karen Cross, Poste Restante, Cathedral, Zurich...

  The words couldn’t even be spoken aloud; not here, not until I’m in Zurich, thought Renwick, and even then only to my old friend Keppler. He would be one man who could get at a poste restante box. Who would question a senior officer in Swiss Intelligence?

  Claudel was saying, “You’d like to be opening that little box right now. Why don’t you leave tomorrow? I’ll hold the fort here if anything else develops.”

  “I’ll stay. Wait. As if we had learned nothing tonight.”

  Claudel mulled over that. “Wise,” he agreed. No one knew that Lorna had said anything, but some might begin to wonder if Renwick made a sudden dash to Zurich. After all, he thought, we were the ones who found her, had time alone with her. “Klaus Sudak—he’s bound to have some ears and eyes down in Chamonix. How soon will they ferret out the story?”

  “Marchand’s men weren’t a talkative bunch. Let’s hope they keep their lips buttoned until midnight at least.”

  “Is Klaus just sitting up there in a comfortable room, ignorant of everything? Can’t believe that. He’s beginning to wonder now why Barney hasn’t returned to the Chalet Ruskin.”

  “Unless Barney was expected to stay and make Lorna Upwood talk.” And no more questions, Pierre: I’m depressed enough. Anything could go wrong at this stage; everything could slip away from us. “Take ten,” he suggested. “Stretch your legs, keep the old muscles warm. But don’t stumble over one of Marchand’s men. Either they’ve slipped out by the front door and circled round to watch us, or they are still inside the chalet.”

  “Thought you said they were our allies.” Claudel rose cautiously, straightened his back.

  “Sure. The friendly adversary type. Competitive.”

  “Ten minutes and I’ll be back here, let you wander around,” Claudel said, his eyes now searching the trees behind him for adequate cover. “I can think of better ways to spend a Saturday night.” He moved off, a silent shadow among shadows.

  Ten minutes, thought Renwick, won’t give him time to pay a visit to the Chalet Ruskin, try to see in his crazy way what is going on up there. I wouldn’t mind having a look myself. Tempting. Klaus may be playing the genial host—bright lights, music, champagne, pretty girls and their handsome young men—but he is bound to be churning inside with worry. Too much at stake right here on this hillside: Lorna; the arrival of some overnight visitor; and don’t forget Vroom’s wife, Annabel—has he calmed her hysteria, solved the new problem she has given him? A very cool, capable customer is Klaus Sudak. Keeps apart. Gives his orders for Lorna’s questioning, probably never even mentioned torture, just tells his thugs that her information is essential. He knows what they’ll do—he chose his people, selected them carefully for just that type of work—and stays away. He won’t even allow himself to be connected with this midnight visitor. Sure, he’s giving him shelter, supplying him with new clothes, money. And that brings me to the question that has been nagging at me for the last half hour. Why doesn’t he offer a room in his own house for an overnight stay? Either he doesn’t want the man to be seen by any of his other guests, or he doesn’t want the man to meet him. Whatever the answer is, one thing is certain: that man is not only important, he could be a danger to Klaus. In that case, why even hide him inside a shuttered chalet? On orders, perhaps: orders that even Klaus Sudak must take. This visitor is as valuable to them as that, is he?

  Claudel returned. “Okay. All quiet up there,” he said softly. “Just some lights from two small chalets above us.” He grinned as he added, “And a lot of light from the Chalet Ruskin. Don’t worry: I didn’t risk that barbed wire. Hadn’t time, anyway.”

  “Too bad,” said Renwick and moved away. When he returned, sat down beside Claudel, he said, “Pierre—try this on for size. We know that Erik has been travelling with William Haversfield. We know that Haversfield is linked with Klingfeld & Sons. We know that Klaus Sudak controls Klingfeld & Sons. We also know that Haversfield reached Rome from Cairo. He was seen, then slipped away after two hours from the men trailing him. Why did he lead them around for two hours? To draw them away from Erik, let him get out of Rome safely?”

  “I’d buy that,” Claudel said. “But where would Erik go? He must have realised in Rome that they had been tracked down— the airport was under surveillance, that was obvious. So Erik wouldn’t risk anything expected—such as taking a direct flight to Zurich or even Germany. All airports would be on the watch.”

  “Right. So what about a flight by private plane to Milan? With Haversfield meeting him there, also by private plane? From some small, out-of-the-way airfield?”

  “Klingfeld has the money for that.”

  “Also an office in Rome—arrangements easily made.”

  Claudel nodded. “Milan? And from there? Not directly to Germany. Not by air. And a car—risky. He can expect the German and Swiss frontier to be under tight surveillance.”

  “What about driving a hired car west? Leaving it at a gas station before the hill roads begin? Being met there? Brought into France?”

  “By the Mont Blanc Tunnel?” Claudel stared at Renwick. “We are reaching, now,” he said. “We’ve left our facts behind—they got us only as far as Rome.” But he thought over Renwick’s suppositions. Suddenly he said, “That wallet in the bureau drawer—francs and marks! Not Swiss currency for use in Zurich.”

  “Not Austrian schillings for a detour by Vienna. Not Italian lire for a freighter out of Genoa. That would take too long, anyway. He wants to get to West Germany fast. That’s where the action is developing—anti -merican feeling rising, protests against rockets and neutron bombs—Erik and his
Direct Action terrorists would have their biggest chance in years. Might even be considered as fighting on the side of the angels.”

  “So that is why Klingfeld & Sons have gone along with him—not sent him to Central America as they first planned.” Then Claudel shook his head. “Bob—are you persuading me to believe that Erik will arrive here? Do you really expect him to step out of a car, all the way from Italy? What about the time factor—could he make it from Milan by midnight?”

  “It could be done.”

  “You’ve calculated?”

  “Roughly.”

  “You really are expecting him,” Claudel said softly.

  “Not expecting. Just thinking he’s a good candidate for that big front room.”

  Erik was certainly that. The link with Klaus Sudak through Haversfield was a definite fact. And Erik never needed a safe house more than he did now. “All right. We don’t expect. We just wait. And be ready.” Erik—if it is Erik who steps into that chalet—will know there’s something wrong the moment he opens the front door. He’s too smart. He could take off like a shot. Where? By night, and darkness on this hillside for another four or five hours, Erik could disappear. He must have a pocket transceiver, could alert Klaus Sudak, be directed to safety. “We could lose him,” Claudel said.

  “Yes.” Renwick smiled as he added, “If it is Erik.”

  “Almost thou persuadest me,” Claudel said softly. He began trying to calculate, from memory, the distance from Milan to the Italian slopes of the Mont Blanc massif—then the tunnel right through into France, landing almost at the back door to Chamonix. “It would need a first-rate driver, one who knew that route.”

  “And one who knows the little chalet.”

  Claudel was thoughtful. “I’ll move down closer to the road. There’s a clump of bushes near the path. See it?”

  “Not much cover,” Renwick said. And where were Marchand’s men?

  “Enough. Pity there couldn’t be a roadblock just half-way to Klaus’s entrance. The car will make its delivery at the path to this chalet, then go on uphill. What do you think?”